The Turing Option

5 February 18, 2023

Benicoff was waiting when Snaresbrook came out of the operating room.

“Do you have a moment to spare, Doctor?”

“Yes, of course. You can tell me what is happening at your end…”

“Can we continue this in your office?”

“Good idea. I have a new coffee machine that I want to try out. It just arrived and was installed this morning.”

Benicoff closed the office door, then turned and raised his eyebrows at the brass machine. “I thought you said new?”

“New to me, that is. This gorgeous device must be ninety years old if it is a day. They just don’t make them this way anymore.”

“With good reason!”

It was six feet high, an impressive gleaming array of valves, pipes, riveted plates, cylinders--all of which was crowned by a bronze eagle with wide-spread wings. Steam hissed loudly from a protruding pipe when Dr. Snaresbrook twisted a knob. “Espresso or cappuccino?” she asked, loading fragrant black coffee into the black-handled holder.

“Espresso — with a twist of lemon.”

“I can see that you have been around. That’s the only way to drink it. Is there any news on the thieves?”

“Negative — but a hard-worked negative. The FBI, the police and a dozen agencies have kept this investigation going night and day. Every possible lead has been followed, every detail of that night’s events investigated exhaustively. Yet there’s not a thing discovered worth mentioning since I talked to you last. That’s good coffee.” He sipped again and waited until Snaresbrook had made one of her own. “And that, I am sorry to say, is all that I have to report. I hope you have better news about Brian.”

Erin Snaresbrook stared into the steaming dark liquid; stirred in another spoonful of sugar. “Basically the good news is that he is still alive. But the severed nerves deteriorate more every day. I’m racing against time — and I don’t know yet if I am winning or losing. As you know, after a nerve fiber dies, a sort of empty tube remains. That was why I have implanted fetal brain cells to grow and replace those fibers. The manipulating machine will also inject tiny amounts of the nerve growth drug gamma-NGF to induce the fetal cells’ axons to grow down those tubes. This technique was discovered in the 1990s by researchers looking for a way to repair spinal-cord injuries — they used to always result in permanent paralysis. Now we repair brain injuries by using this and another drug, SRS, that overcomes the tendency of mature brain cells to resist invasion by other nerve fibers trying to make new connections.”

Benicoff frowned. “Why would brains do such a thing, if it keeps them from repairing themselves?”

“An interesting question. Most other body tissues are very good at making repairs, or admitting other cells that offer help. But think for a moment about the nature of a memory. It is based on the precise relations of unbelievably tiny fiber connections. Once those connections are made, they have to persist, with almost no change, for twenty, or fifty, or even ninety years! Therefore the brain has evolved many peculiar defenses of its own, defenses found in no other tissue, to prevent most normal kinds of change. It appears that the advantage of having better memory outweighs the advantage of being able to repair injury.

“Brian’s recovery is going to take some time. The slowest part of the process will be regrowing the severed nerve fibers. That will require at least a few months, even using NGF, since we don’t dare to use it in large doses. NGF causes uninjured brain cells to grow as well — which if not monitored closely will disrupt the parts of the brain that still work! To say nothing of the risk of cancer. Because of this, Brian’s progress will be very slow.”

“Will you be proceeding with this process now?”

“Not at once, not until the new nerve fibers have grown. When that has happened we will have to find out what the brain cells do on each side of the injury. When we have sorted that out, we can think about reconnecting the correct pairs.”

“But there must be millions of them!”

“There are — but I won’t have to untangle them all. I’ll start by finding the easiest ones. Bunches of nerve fibers that correspond to the most common ideas, ones that every child has. We’ll display pictures of dogs, cats, chairs, windows, a thousand objects like that. And look for fibers that are active for each one.” For the first time she forgot her chronic exhaustion, buoyed up by enthusiasm.

“Then we’ll go on to words. The average educated person normally uses about twenty thousand. That’s really not very many when you think about it. We can play a tape of them in less than a day — then go on to word relationships, groups, sentences.”

“Excuse my stupidity, Doctor, but I don’t see the sense of this. You’ve been trying to talk to Brian for days now — with absolutely no sign of response. He doesn’t seem to hear anything.”

“It looks like that — but Brian is not a him right now. He is only a shattered brain, a collection of nonconnecting parts. What we must discover is what these parts, these agencies are — and reconnect them. That is the entire point of what we are doing. If we are ever to rebuild his mind, we must first go back and retrieve its parts, so that we can integrate them and bridge between his memories. And this was a good day as far as input. About Brian’s early school years, the important, formative time that shaped his life to come. It was fortunate that your people located his school psychiatrist, he’s teaching now in Oregon, and flew in. Man by the name of Rene Gimelle. He met Brian the first day the boy arrived in the school, saw him regularly after that. In addition he had many interviews with the boy’s father. He gave us some excellent input.”

“Is there anything wrong, Dr. Gimelle?” Paddy asked, trying to keep the concern from his voice and failing badly. “I came as soon as I got your message.” Gimelle smiled and shook his head.

“Quite the opposite, very good news. When I talked to you and your wife last I remember telling you to be patient, that Brian was going to need time to adjust to this totally new life. Any child who is plucked from a small town — in a different country — and sent around the world is going to need time to get accustomed to all the changes. When I did my evaluation I was sure that Brian would have his troubles and I was prepared for the worst. It didn’t take long to find out that he had been bullied and rejected by his peer group in Ireland, laughed at — if you will excuse the word — for being a bastard. Even worse, he felt rejected by all of his close relatives after his mother died. I have been seeing him once a week and doing what I can to help him to cope. The good news is that he seems to need less and less help. Admittedly, he’s not very social with his classmates, but this should get better in time. As far as his classwork goes — it would be hard to improve upon it. With very little persuasion by his teachers he has gone from failing grades to straight A’s in every subject.”

“Persuasion sounds ominous. What do you mean?”

“Perhaps that was the wrong word to use in this context. I think rewards-for-effort might express it better. As you well know, experienced teachers will make sure that good behavior, good classwork, is noticed and complimented. It is really a matter of positive reinforcement, a technique with proven efficacy. Doing the direct opposite, pointing out failures, accomplishes very little — other than instilling a sense of guilt, which is almost always counterproductive. In Brian’s case the computer proved to be the key to any learning problems he had. I’ve seen the recordings — you can look at them as well if you wish — of just what he has accomplished in a very few weeks—”

“Recordings? I am afraid that I don’t understand.”

Gimelle looked uncomfortable, arranging and rearranging paper clips on the desk before him. “There is nothing unusual or illegal in this. It is common practice in most schools — in fact it is required here at UFE. You must have seen it in your employment contract when you signed it.”

“Hardly. There were over fifty pages of fine print in the thing.”

“What did your lawyer say about it?”

“Nothing — since I didn’t consult one. At the time life for me was, shall we say, rather stressful. What you are saying is that all of the students in this school have taps on their computers, that everything they enter can be seen and recorded?”

“A common and accepted practice, a very useful diagnostic and educational tool. After all, in the days of written notebooks they were turned in to be graded. You might say that accessing a student’s computer is very much the same thing.”

“I don’t think it is. We grade notebooks — but not personal diaries. All of which is beside the point. I’ll consider the morality of this dubious practice some other time. Now we are thinking about Brian. What did these clandestine recordings reveal?”

“An exceedingly unusual and original mind. LOGO, as you know, is more man a first computer language that children learn. It is very flexible when implemented correctly. I was delighted to see that Brian not only solved the problems of the class assignments, but when he had a solution he tried to write a meta-program that incorporated all of his solutions. He invented data bases of IF-THEN rules for his own programming. For example if an answer was needed then he would insert some lines of code. And edit later. Very easy to do in LOGO — if you know how — because all the tools are there. For example, while other students were learning to draw pictures, graphics programs, using LOGO, Brian was way ahead of them. He saved and indexed each useful drawing fragment with changeable parameters, along with geometric constraints on where to draw it. His programs now draw recognizable caricatures of the other students, and myself as well. They can even change expression. That was last week — and he has unproved the programs already. Now the figures can walk, and solve simple problems, right on the screen.”

Paddy had a good deal to think about when he went home that night.

Benicoff and the surgeon both looked up, startled, when the door slammed open and General Schorcht stamped in, the pinned-up empty sleeve of his jacket swinging as he stabbed the index finger of his left hand at Snaresbrook.

“You. If you are Dr. Snaresbrook you’re coming with me.”

The surgeon turned about slowly to face the intruder. She had to lean back to look up at the tall General’s face. She appeared not to be impressed.

“Who are you?” she said coldly.

“Tell her,” Schorcht snapped at Benicoff.

“This is General Schorcht who is with…”

“That’s identification enough. This is a military emergency and I need your help. There is a patient here in intensive care, Brian Delaney, who is in great danger.”

“I am well aware of that.”

“Not medical danger — physical attack.” Benicoff started to speak but the General waved him to silence. “Later. We have very little time now. The hospital authorities inform me that the patient is too ill to be moved at this time.”

“That is correct.”

“Then the records must be altered. You will come with me to do this.”

Snaresbrook’s skin grew livid; she was not used to being spoken to in this manner. Before she could explode Benicoff quickly intervened.

“Doctor, let me fill you in very quickly. We have firm reason to believe that when Brian was shot, that others were killed as well. There must be national security involved or the General would not be here. I am sure that explanations will be forthcoming — but for the moment would you please be of assistance?”

Brain surgeons are well used to instant, life-and-death decisions. Snaresbrook put down her coffee cup, turned at once and started toward the door.

“Yes, of course. Come with me to the nurse’s station.”

The General had certainly made no friends since he had entered the hospital. The angry head nurse was reluctantly pacified by Snaresbrook and finally convinced of the urgency of the matter. She dismissed the other nurses while Snaresbrook managed to do the same with the staff doctor. Only when they were gone did the General turn to the gray-haired head nurse, who matched him glare for glare.

“Where is the patient now?” he asked.

She turned to the indicator board and touched a lit number. “Here. Intensive care. Room 314.”

“Are there any other rooms on this floor that are empty?”

“Just 330. But it is a double…”

“That doesn’t matter. Now change the indicator board and the records to show Delaney in 330, and 314 as being empty.”

“There will be trouble…”

“Do it.”

She did — with great reluctance. As she punched in the changes another nurse hurried in, still pinning on her badge. Schorcht nodded grimly.

“About time, Lieutenant. Get into the station. The rest of us are leaving. If anyone asks, the patient Brian Delaney is in room 330.” He silenced the staff nurse with a quick chop of his hand. “Lieutenant Drake is a military nurse with a great deal of hospital experience. There will be no trouble.” His beeper sounded and he switched on his radio and listened to it. “Understood.” He put it back on his belt and looked around him.

“We have about two minutes, possibly. Listen and don’t ask questions. We will all leave this area — leave this floor in fact. Lieutenant Drake knows what to do. We have just learned that there will be an attempt on the patient’s life. I not only want to prevent this crime but obtain information about the would-be perpetrators. You can all help by simply leaving now. Understood?”

The General led the way; there were no arguments. Nurse Drake stood almost at attention as they were hurried down the corridor to the stairwell and off the third floor. Only when they were gone did she take a deep breath and relax slightly. She pulled her uniform straight and turned to the mirror on the wall to make sure her cap was square and correct. When she turned back she controlled her start of surprise when she saw the young man standing at the counter.

“Can I help you… Doctor?” she said. He was dressed in hospital whites and had an electronic stethoscope hanging from his pocket.

“Nothing important. I just came on. Passed some worried visitors asking about a Brian Delaney. A new admittance?” He leaned over the counter and tapped the indicator. “Is that him?”

“Yes, Doctor. Intensive care, 330. Critical but stable.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell them when I go out.”

The nurse smiled at him. Nice-looking, tanned, late twenties, carrying a black bag. Still smiling, she put her hand to her waist and as soon as he had turned his back pressed twice on the button of what appeared to be an ordinary pager.

Whistling softly through his teeth, the young man went down the corridor, turned a corner and past 330 without a glance. He stopped at the next cross corridor and looked both ways — then ran swiftly and silently back to the room. No one was in sight. With his hand in the black bag he threw open the door and saw the empty beds. Before he could react the two men inside the room, one to each side of the door, pushed automatic pistols into his midriff.

“Whatever you’re thinking of doing — don’t!” the taller one said.

“Hello there,” the young man said and let the bag drop, swinging up the bulbous-tipped revolver at the same time.

They fired to wound, not kill. Quick shots into his arms and shoulder. He was still smiling as he fell face-forward. Before they could grab him and roll him over, there was a muffled pop.

They looked very uncomfortable when Schorcht came stalking in.

“He did it himself, sir, before we could stop him. Single shot into the chest with an explosive bullet. Blew a great damned hole in himself. Nothing left to patch up — even being right here in the hospital.”

The General’s nostrils flared and his glare, aimed first at one then the other of them like a swiveling cannon, was far worse than anything he could have said. It smoked with demotion, reprimand, blighted careers. He turned on his heel and stomped out to the waiting Benicoff.

“Get the FBI onto the body. Find out anything, everything!”

“Will do. Can you tell me now what this is all about?”

“No. This is a need-to-know situation — and you don’t need to know anything further. Let us say only that this Megalobe business has become slotted into something much larger that we have been aware of for some time. And this sort of attack will not be permitted to happen again. There will be guards here right around the clock until the patient can be moved. When he can he is going to go right out of here and over there, across the bay to Idiot’s Island. Coronado. I don’t like the Navy — but at least they are part of the military. They should be able to guard one man inside their hospital inside the largest naval base in the world. I hope.”

“I am sure that they can. But you are going to tell me the background to this assassination attempt. Or my own investigation will be compromised.”

“When the time comes you will be informed.” Icily. But Benicoff was not buying it; his voice was just as cold as the General’s.

“Not satisfactory. If the people behind this are the same as the ones who shot Brian then I do need to know. Now tell me.”

It was a standoff — until General Schorcht reluctantly made the decision.

“I can tell you the absolute minimum. We have an informant in a criminal organization. He discovered this assassination attempt, contacted us as soon as he could. He knows only that the killer was hired — but as yet he doesn’t know who made the approach. If and when he acquires that information it will be passed on to you. Satisfactory?”

“Satisfactory. As long as you remember to tell me.” Benicoff smiled cheerfully in response to General Schorcht’s glare of hatred, turned and left. He found Snaresbrook in her office, closed and locked the door before he told her what had happened.

“And no one knows yet who is behind this attempt, or why they are doing it?” the surgeon asked.

“The why is pretty obvious. Whoever stole the artificial intelligence equipment and details wants a monopoly — and no witnesses. They wanted to be sure that Brian would never be able to talk.”

“In that case — let us see what we can do to interfere with their plans. But the relocation to Coronado will not be easy — or soon. Brian’s in no condition to be moved, nor am I willing to interrupt the healing process. As I have said, this is a battle against time. So you and your obnoxious General will just have to find a way to make this hospital secure.”

“He is going to love that. I’ll take another coffee before I even think about facing him.”

“Help yourself. But I have to get back to the O.R.”

“I’m going with you. I’m staying there until I see just what kind of security the General comes up with.”